


Kingdom Come

by SelenaEstella



Category: Bleach
Genre: Coming Out, Established Relationship, Gender Dysphoria, Heavy Angst, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Ichigo being Cis™, M/M, Misgendering, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Relationship Issues, Self-Hatred, Trans Male Character, Transphobia, hurt grimmjow, many potential triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-11 19:52:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18430946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SelenaEstella/pseuds/SelenaEstella
Summary: Whatever Grimmjow had been in his human life, neither he nor Ichigo had expected this. Stuck in a gigai for twenty-four hours, he and Ichigo just have to deal.Or: Grimmjow has the world's shittiest coming out party with Ichigo in attendance.





	Kingdom Come

**Author's Note:**

> This is quite a personal fic for me, but also a story that I hope will still be entertaining and enjoyable.

There was no way Grimmjow had died peacefully in bed. Ichigo had known that, long before Urahara had approached them with the offer of his new invention: a gigai, designed to tap into the roots of an Arrancar's soul and reveal the life they'd lead before they died. The why and the how were unanswered questions, but he insisted he knew what he was doing. It was intriguing, exciting, a once-in-the-afterlife chance… and something Grimmjow was sure to reject. Because why would he be interested? Grimmjow embraced being Hollow, perfectly happy to shrug off his humanity.

It'd been a surprise, then, when he'd had shown up a few weeks later and said that actually, yeah, he’d give it a go.

What's the worst that could happen?

Ichigo thought he'd be ready. He'd imagined a soldier, or rebel, or yakuza, or... something like that. From the Russo-Japanese war, or World War 2. Maybe older, like the Muromachi Period, or the Mongul invasions. Even something far more disant, like America's War of Independence or the French Revolution. Surely Grimmjow had been part of something huge, intense, something that would leave a mark, because how else could Grimmjow's personality have overcome hundreds, thousands of others? Surely he'd been part of something... _significant._

Not this. Whatever 'this' is.

Ichigo can deal with aggression. Violence. With all of Grimmjow's mood swings and bad tempers. He'd been prepared for a fight if things went south, anticipated it even. That’s why they’re doing this while the girls are at school and Isshin’s busy in the clinic, to keep the casualties low.

But the silence stretches on.

Grimmjow had thought he was ready, too. How could any human trauma be worse than what he'd overcome in the afterlife? They'd talked a little beforehand and he’d even joked about it, telling Ichigo not to freak out if the gigai lost a couple of limbs, because it was all superficial, right? Like a photo, or a painting - not real, just a reminder.

One hell of a reminder.

Ichigo stands by the door - guarding it, he tells himself, because no one else should see this. This moment so intensely private it feels obscene to witness, to even look at his own boyfriend who'd been the one who wanted to pull this stupid stunt in the first place.

Boyfriend...

  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

_Girlfriend?_

Holy fuck but he has no idea what to do.

"Are you… holding up ok?” he asks weakly, breaking the silence that had formed like ice once Grimmjow's body had stopped contorting, folding and rearranging itself with the _crunch_ and _snap_ of breaking bones until he - _she?_ \- had fallen off the bed and crumpled into a ball and not said or done anything since.

The head of messy blue hair, turning brown at the roots, rises slowly. The face is different, too thin and too fragile with hollow cheeks and waxy skin,

but the eyes are the same.

Blue and burning with rage.

"Get it off me."

 

-

 

His voice comes out and it's _wrong._

It's his but it's - _not._  It's too high, too small, too brittle.

Grimmjow closes his eyes and lowers his head again. He feels dizzy and sick from the rush of agony when the gigai changed, crushing inward around his soul, but there's more to it than that. Like something heavy and gross is coiling in his gut, like he's wrong on the _inside_ , too. His instincts command him to act, to fight back against the panic rising in his blood but the enemy isn't _there_ , with a cero or a sword, it's _him._  It's his new, freak body.

Except it isn't new, is it?

It's horribly, intimately familiar.

Meanwhile Ichigo's standing there uselessly, looking like he'd rather march naked through town than stay another moment. Can't blame him, in a way; this isn't what either of them wanted. But hell if it doesn't make the whole thing worse. _'The fuck is your problem?'_ Grimmjow wants to snarl. _'You're only watching, I'm having to live this!'_

But if he speaks he'll hear that voice again.

Memories catch him like a whirlpool, dragging him down into the long forgotten well of his wretched, human self. Street lights and red lights, police sirens mixing constantly with the throb of club music filling the air. People all around him, bathed in stark shadows, talking and laughing and singing off-key. Cars driving by with snatches of radio carrying off into the night. Air hot and dry around him, full of car exhaust and cigarette smoke.

Someone calls out to him specifically, a girl in high heels and leopard print with bleached-blonde hair and not two cents to rub together. Grimmjow flips her off and keeps walking, keeps swaggering down the sidewalk because if he looks right, acts right, doesn't speak, no one will know and he'll make it there in one piece...

The memory leaves him gasping. His chest presses into the bones of his thighs, small and stunted like the rest of him but one of the worst things about this disaster. If he had Pantera they'd be gone in a spray of blood and a sigh of relief, but that wouldn't fix the gap between his legs that's even more humiliating than suddenly having tits again.

When the fuck will this end?

White spots dance at the edges of his vision, but Grimmjow moves anyway, forcing himself to stand.

“Hey,” Ichigo begins, and it sounds more like he’s speaking to a frightened child than Grimmjow Jaegerjaques. “Can I get you anything? Water? Clothes?”

Grimmjow turns stiffly. He sways for a moment, head hanging low, before stepping out of his jeans where they’ve pooled around his feet. His shirt covers him completely. He feels disgusting all over, inside and out, but refuses to sit and feel sorry for himself.

“You deaf or somethin’?” he growls, or tries to anyway, levelling Ichigo with a cold stare. “Get this fucking thing off me.”

Ichigo looks shocked. Appalled. Afraid. But his eyes are full of pity and it makes Grimmjow’s blood _boil._

“The hell are you starin’ at??” Grimmjow casts his eyes around the room, searching for the familiar skull insignia; trying to ignore the desperation bleeding into his tone. “Get your badge or- something!”

“I can’t.” Ichigo steps forward. Seizes Grimmjow’s hands, pulls them away from the red lines he’s clawed into his throat. “It could kill you, remember? Urahara said-”

“ _Fuck_ Urahara! Scheming bastard, I bet he’s enjoying this!” Ichigo’s hands are too big, too tight, and they close like shackles on Grimmjow's wrists.  “Let me _go!”_

He lashes out with a kick that’s all instinct. It’s weak as shit but hits home, and he feels a spike of satisfaction as Ichigo chokes and clutches his balls. But Grimmjow’s running on adrenaline, nothing more, and it won’t last.

“ _Bastard,_ ” Ichigo hisses.

Grimmjow edges around him, scowling under limp strands of dirty blue. He already feels weak again, heart pounding in his chest. He wouldn‘t last another fight. “I need a shower,” he says, unthinkingly, walking slow and unsteady towards the door. Pauses for second to look back. Ichigo's staring, eyes sad and confused, and Grimmjow _hates it_. “Don’t fuckin’ follow me.”

 

-

 

Icy water rushes down. Grimmjow leans against the tiled wall and stares at his hands beneath the cascade. Icy, in the hopes that it would clear his head, but all it does is help drive home that he is _like this,_  now. The water maps the plains and contours of his body, streams down the angles and curves of his back, his chest, his hips, his thighs. Gigais have always felt unnervingly real, like his hierro's been ripped off and every touch is a thousand times sharper, but this one was supposed to be _different_.

Fuck Urahara, and his stupid, fucked up inventions.

Grimmjow turns off the shower and steps out, shivering. Gets a good look at his reflection in the mirror above the sink, at his small, delicate, _feminine_ features before turning away and grabbing a towel, shoulders hunched and head bowed. Wants to scream and rage and fight. Knows he'd only damage himself, and the situation’s bad enough already without bloody knuckles or broken toes.

What Grimmjow really, truly wants is to rip Urahara a new asshole for this shit. He wants to beat that bastard’s face in until it’s nothing but a crater and every trace of that godawful smile is gone. He _had_ to have known this would happen, because why else would he have offered? Fucker never does anything for free, and his personal amusement counts as payment any time. But unless Grimmjow feels like shouting from the advantage of a footstool, that line of thought won't get him anywhere.

 _Later_ , he swears to himself, voice in his head reassuringly unchanged. _Later, once this is over, I'll make him regret using me._

Rage simmers, volatile but familiar and Grimmjow clings to the feeling as he walks slowly back to the bedroom. Back to Ichigo, if only because there's nowhere else to go. Drops of water slide down his hair and make goosebumps rise on his skin, but the cold’s becoming a welcome distraction from the snatches of memory still dancing behind his eyes. Fuck this. What the hell made him think this was a good fucking idea? So much to getting closer to his stupid human boyfriend.

Ichigo’s where he left him, standing anxiously by the door, eyes soft with concern in a way that makes Grimmjow’s teeth grind. He hasn’t had to look up at anyone since Aizen parked his ass on Las Noches’ throne. Now he has to tilt his head back just to meet Ichigo’s gaze.

“What?” Grimmjow asks coldly.

Ichigo clears his throat and gestures awkwardly to the bed. His eyes won’t stop flicking up and down, failing to linger on any part of Grimmjow for more than a second. There a pink tinge on his cheeks, as if _he’s_ the one with any right to be embarrassed. “I got some of my sisters’ things out… I wasn’t sure what you’d like so I got a bunch of stuff.”

There are clothes laid out on the bed, all approximately the right size - shirts and jeans and… dresses. Skirts. Frilly things, pretty things, with ribbons and bows and hearts and the sight makes Grimmjow feel physically sick. His eyes catch on a pale yellow sundress and it feels like a punch in the gut because he _knows_.

What it feels like.

What it looks like. On him.

That he would rather peel his own skin off than have it touch him again.

And Ichigo doesn’t _get it,_ because normal people never do. He looks at Grimmjow and sees a girl, as if he hasn’t been completely, _blatantly_ male since the first time they met and it… it _hurts_. In a way Grimmjow didn’t expect.

Just when he thought they were on the same fucking page…

He grabs ones of Karin’s tracksuits and drops the towel, pulls it on without underwear or a T-shirt, just wants to feel covered. The zip is an icy line down the middle of his chest, but the jacket is loose and that helps, a little.

“It's only twenty-four hours,” Ichigo says, oblivious. “You wanna… do anything until then?”

Grimmjow isn’t listening. He picks up the sundress and brandishes it. “What the hell is this?”

Ichigo looks confused and oddly offended. Maybe he likes it. Thought Grimmjow would like it. Thought it might look _good on him._

“It’s a dress,” Ichigo says stupidly. “Hey, don’t hold it like that, you’re gonna-”

He reaches out. Grimmjow’s last thread of patience snaps.

It's a move he hasn't used in decades. Hasn't  _had_ to use in decades. Something an old woman with hundreds of scars taught him when he was eighteen years old, how to defend himself from men who were bigger and stronger and wanted him dead.

 _'Grab his wrist and pull._  
_Use your core.  
__Flip that bastard onto the concrete.'_

Ichigo can’t even blink before his back slams into the floor.

_“Shut up!”_

Grimmjow throws himself down and pins Ichigo by the throat, thumbs jabbing into his Adam's apple. But he's shaking with more than just emotion, his arms are like string with knots for elbows, and throwing him off would be child's play.

“Shut… shut up…”

But Ichigo doesn't move. Just breathes as well as he can with Grimmjow bearing down on his windpipe. Waits.

Listens.

“You _fucking_ idiot!” Grimmjow snarls, face twisted with rage. “Since when've I _ever_ looked like a woman to you?! I was-” His voice catches.

“I’m-” It's getting harder to breathe.

“I'm _transgender,_ you fucking moron.”

For a moment there is only quiet. Ichigo's eyes widen as he stares, seeing Grimmjow for the first time all over again.

Grimmjow looks away first, a lump in his throat. Somehow, having to say it out loud made it worse, made it _real_ , and he can’t take the words back. Ichigo knows, now. And even when the whole shitshow is over, he won't magically forget what Grimmjow was, what he still _is_. And Grimmjow can't figure out when Ichigo's opinions began to matter so much but they _do_.

A drop of something clear lands on Ichigo's cheek. Leaves a trail as it rolls to the side.

_Fuck._

“I'm sorry.” Ichigo's voice comes out all reedy and high from the weight on his vocal chords, it'd be funny any other time. “Grimmjow, I'm sorry.”

Grimmjow wants to be angry. To rage and fight and fuel his aggression. He wants to hate the world that made him.

But he always _hopes._

That this time will be different.

That this _person_ will be different.

His arms give out and he falls.

Ichigo catches him. Gently, light and loose and for once it doesn’t feel constraining. Grimmjow fights with himself for as long as he can, eyes squeezed shut, trying hard to push down his emotions, be _Hollow._ Maybe, in a minute, he can get up and pretend this didn’t happen. Save at least some of his pride.

A hand runs down his back. Over each knot in his spine. Heavy and warm.

“It’s... it'll be ok,” Ichigo whispers. “I'm sorry, Grimmjow. It'll be ok.

"You can cry if you need to."

And why

_why_

does Ichigo always have to say the shit that gets to him most?

Grimmjow can feel himself shaking. A quiet, bitter sob works its way free of his throat. It’s like his heart was just ripped out again, leaving him raw as the morning he died. Everything hurts. Memories assault him, each one like a battering ram against an old, infected wound and it’s _too_

_fucking_

_much._

He sinks his teeth into Ichigo’s shoulder and _screams._

Ichigo freezes, then makes himself relax. Says nothing. Just keeps holding Grimmjow as he brawls his eyes out like a child, pounding the floor with one clenched fist and yanking at his hair with the other, until the hand that wasn’t rubbing his back pulls it away from the tangles of blue. Lets Grimmjow try to crush it with his fingers and skin it with his nails. Lets him take out his misery.

And there's nothing else Grimmjow can do. He feels so weak. So _pathetic._

So human.

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts? Comments? Critiques? I'm open to feedback but please be kind ^^ And if there's anything in particular you're interested in seeing, feel free to let me know!


End file.
